“She’s our Christmas Eve baby,” Mum would say with pride as if she had planned the whole thing. She hadn’t. But Christmas was her favourite holiday.

The house didn’t change much. Just the artificial tree in the living room and a few colourful lights strung around the garage. But Mum changed. She came alive. And when she did, the whole place felt different. I felt different.

She would spend hours arranging the gifts under the tree, making sure they looked just right, then add a new one and have to start all over again. “Your mother’s playing under the tree again,” Dad would shake his head and chuckle. She was a bit obsessed with finding the perfect gifts for my brother and me. I realize now that she was trying to give us the kind of Christmas magic she never had.

She didn’t bake—ever—but every year she’d buy a fruitcake from Marks & Spencer, about the size and weight of a brick, and carefully cover it with marzipan and a light layer of white icing. I hated it, but was encouraged to have a small piece anyway, for tradition’s sake.

We would decorate the tree with all of our little school-made popcorn strings and foil-covered egg cartons. When we finished, Dad would always put the star on top.

With all that Christmas excitement in the air, it would have been easy for my birthday to get lost. But my parents made sure that never happened. Mum always wrapped my presents in proper birthday paper, even though it would have been much easier to use the Christmas wrapping that was covering every inch of the dining room table.

While the rest of the world was frantically finishing their shopping, I was opening birthday cards, eating cake, and never got those dreaded “combo gifts” that some of my December friends complained about.

And long before Take Your Kid to Work Day existed, Dad created our own tradition. Christmas Eve was reserved for visiting his best customers from his concrete business, and I got to be his work partner for the day. I’d put on my holiday dress, usually velvet or taffeta, with white tights and my special-occasion black patent shoes. We’d load the car with bottles of Canadian Club whisky, which was perfectly acceptable in the ’70s.

“Always have a firm handshake, Linda,” he’d say, practising with me in parking lots between visits. His big hand would swallow mine as he demonstrated the proper pressure. “Nothing worse than a limp handshake.”

Being included in his world for a day was the best gift ever. I was his special birthday girl, witnessing firsthand why everyone loved him, feeling proud to be his daughter and knowing he felt the same about me.

Even as an adult, they never stopped making my birthday feel special. During the years I was single, Dad would surprise me with something sparkly to make sure I felt loved and celebrated. Mum would take me for lunch and shopping, always convinced I must need a new winter coat or a pretty party dress, even when there was no party.

But now, December 24 comes tied up with the ache of realizing that I am nobody’s child. Dad is gone and Mum is lost somewhere between yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Dementia has taken the mother she used to be, the one who took such care wrapping my presents in birthday paper.

David and the kids try their best to fill that space. I know they love me. I can feel it. Sometimes, maybe they even adore me. A little bit. But it’s different. Because there’s something irreplaceable about the people who celebrated on the actual day you were born and were right there the moment you took your first breath. The people who made you feel that your very existence was their greatest gift.

On my birthday, the thing I want the most is the thing I can no longer have: to be their Christmas Eve baby.

* * *

 

AUTHOR: Linda Stuart is a Life-Cycle Celebrant, Writer and Speaker in Toronto, Ontario. Specializing in funerals, Linda’s passion is bringing stories to life through meaningful ceremonies. You may also like: Are We Dead Wrong About Closure? ** When I Die, Please Do Something ** 10 Things I Wish You Knew About Funerals